


Best Pies In London

by Call_Me_Clarence



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I AM BEEN KNEW NOW, I low key forgot what a mince pie was, John eats so much pie i'm lowkey highkey jealous, Johnlock kisses, KatsJohnlockXmas, M/M, Pies pies and even more pies, Sherlock can cook, Sherlock feeds John up, Sort Of, Sweeney Todd References, but I FOUND OUT, holiday fluff, part of the fic happens around the holidays so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_Me_Clarence/pseuds/Call_Me_Clarence
Summary: John watches Sweeney Todd with Sherlock. This was his first mistake. His next was becoming Sherlock's official Pie Taste Tester. Will John and his waistline survive? Read to find out.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	Best Pies In London

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лучшие пироги в Лондоне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21779371) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> I may have thought Mince Pies meant Mince Meat Pies... I'm a dumb American, what can I say? But we get there in the end, I think. The fic just had to take a slight detour. At least John got a lot of good home cooking out of the deal.
> 
> This is for Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019, day three. The prompt was Mince Pies.

On second thought, John really shouldn’t have let Sherlock watch Sweeney Todd.

At first it had seemed an innocuous choice, at least for them. And besides, it had been the only thing on Telly that day. John had fully expected Sherlock to prance off to his room with John’s laptop the moment the singing started up--so pretty much immediately--but to John’s amazement, Sherlock had seemed to just hyperfocus on the film instead. John didn’t realize his mistake until the next day.

BANG!

John shoots up from bed, looking around blearily. Had that been a gunshot?

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Not a gun, but something was definitely afoot.

John stumbles out of bed and follows the loud banging into the kitchen, where he finds… Sherlock?

“What is  _ God’s name _ are you doing?!” He shouts at his flatmate over the ruckus.

Sherlock smacks a rolling pin down on the counter one final time before spinning around.

“I’m making dough.” he explains simply.

John could see past Sherlock on the counter that he was in fact making dough… or something resembling it, at least. But it was hard to look at anything other than Sherlock himself, as the man was wearing a frilly red and white checkered apron--obviously stolen from Mrs.Hudson downstairs--and covered head to toe in flour. He had it in his hair. Had it  _ all over _ the apron. And he had a tiny pile of it on each shoe.

John was going to say something else, but it just ended up coming out as laughter.

“Stop that.” Sherlock frowns. “You look like a lunatic. Laughing in the kitchen at four in the morning for absolutely no reason.”

That makes John laugh all the more, which in turn makes Sherlock’s frown increase in frowniness.

“Sorry,” John gasps, wiping at his eyes, “Sorry. But you look, umm…”

“What?” Sherlock stands up straighter, poncier, rolling pin held like he might whack John with it if he didn’t stop laughing at him.

John couldn’t speak, he tries, but can only guffaw and gasp for air.

“I’m ignoring you until you begin acting like a person again.” Sherlock declares and goes back to whacking the dough, this time with even more force.

John shakes his head, chuckling as he makes his way to the shower. He obviously wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight, might as well get an early--read:ridiculously early--start on his day.

\-----

When John gets home, there are meat pies everywhere.  _ Everywhere _ .

Sherlock is making another as John walks into the kitchen, rolling the top crust off of the rolling pin and onto the top of the pie. John thinks he must have timed it, been lying in wait for John to walk in.That or John’s life had literally turned into Sweeny Todd.... And if that were the case, he wouldn’t be able to eat any of these pies--damn do they smell good though--so he pushes  _ that _ thought from his mind.

“So this is what all that dough was for.” John remarks, sitting his leather briefcase down on a dining chair and picking up a pie from off the flour-dusty kitchen table. Or at least he tries to.

“Ow!” John yelps, pulling his hand back from where Sherlock had whacked it with the rolling pin--not hard, but still.

“Not that one,” Sherlock points at him with his rolling pin--Johns begins to worry that Sherlock might be developing a dependency on this particular item--and points with it towards another pie on the counter, “That one.”

“Alright. Alright.” John rubs at his hand, feigning injury. He goes as directed and picks up this other pie, which is warmer. Were meat pies supposed to be warm or cold?

“Oh, God,” John moans after he takes his first bite. A bit of the pies contents come spilling out onto the floor, but looking at the floor, it doesn’t really make that much of a difference. So John shrugs at the mess, then looks up at Sherlock--who’s waited with bated breath,apparently, for John’s opinion--and smiles. “This is brilliant.”

Sherlock smiles back, a little maniacally. A little too much like something Sweeny Todd or Mrs. Luvett might give. It makes John question the contents of the pies again.

“You like it?” Sherlock is leaning forward, “Any complaints?”

John leans back, “Should there be?” he looks at the pie in his hands. “Sherlock!” he yells. Oh God, what did Sherlock put in this?!

“It’s not poisoned.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, and then smacks an imaginary roach on the kitchen table where he’s been working.

“Or drugged?” John asks angrily, holding up his pie, “I swear to God, Sherlock. If you’ve drugged me again--”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock scoffs. “As if I’d have a reason to drug you today.”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s not drugged!” Another smack to the table. Though John thinks this time was purely out of anger, and not out of any need to kill imaginary bugs.

“Oh.” John deflates. “Well then.” He takes another bite, “It’s brilliant, then.”

Sherlock glares up at him, but John can see the makings of a smile hiding underneath.

\------

That night is filled with the loud bangs of more dough being made--were you  _ really _ supposed to smack the dough that hard? John didn’t know a thing about baking, but _ still _ \--and so John just tunes it out. You don’t come out of a warzone without picking up the ability to sleep through the sounds of mortar fire. Even if a loud bang in the night would cause John to go into a panic, as long as the banging started before he went to sleep, the only thing that would disturb him would be if the banging stopped suddenly. 

Which of course it does.

John looks blearily over at his radio/clock and see’s the time is only just now rolling over to five in the morning. He wants desperately to go back to sleep, but his stomach grumbles in protest. He tries to tell it that the pies probably aren’t even close to done yet. But his stomach persists, and so he gets up. Just to check.

John walks into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He and his stomach are both dismayed to see that the counters aren’t covered in little pastries. John knew they wouldn’t be. But still.

“Good morning, John.” Sherlock smirks over his shoulder. He’s working at the stove, cooking up something that smells of meat, onions, and just everything warm and savory. It make John’s stomach grumble loudly. 

Sherlock turns more to give John a thorough once over, before his smirk grows in it’s smirkiness, and he grabs the rolling pin from next to the stove, using it to point at a plate John hadn’t noticed sitting on the counter. 

“That one.” He says, and then goes back to whatever he’s frying up.

John looks and sees three little pies sitting their neatly, just waiting for John to devour them. He takes the plate up with a, “Ta,” in Sherlock’s general direction, before picking up one of the pies.

Their cold, and now that he looks at them, not quite the same pie as last night. His stomach is far too frenzied at the thought of pie to question anything, and so he takes a bite. Not Game Pies. Pork Pies.

The pork is perfectly seasoned, the jelly not too cold or gummy. The crust flakey and beautiful. It all melts on John’s tongue like heaven.

“When did you get so good at making pies?” John asks around another mouthful, too enraptured by the tastes exploding in his mouth that he doesn’t even move to sit down. Just devouring his breakfast as ravenously as possible like some sort of heathen.

“Last night,” Sherlock pauses, spatula in the air, “No, scratch that. Yesterday night.”

John moans when he discovers the next pie had a small hard boiled egg at its center.

“I could get used to this.” he says.

Sherlock stops his stirring, blinks, then, “Good.”

\-------

John had never rushed home from work so quickly in his life. 

Sherlock had packed him up a lunch--a Chicken and Leek pie with a creamy sauce--and it had been to die for. He’d promised that when John got home that there would be  _ even more pies _ to sample.

“I’m home!” John shouts excitedly into the flat, flinging off his coat and scarf, tossing his briefcase to god knows where.

“In here!” Sherlock calls from the kitchen, making John’s heart leap for joy.

“Would you be able to fill out a few data-sheets on your opinions on the pies? I would appreciate an outside opinion. And Mrs.Hudson says the same thing each time ‘Their lovely dear’.”

John laughs at Sherlock’s impersonation of their landlady.

“Love to,” he says around a mouthful of Steak and Kidney pie, “You keep making pies, and I’ll be your official taste tester. Jump through any hoops you want. Just keep these glorious things coming.”

“Excellent.”

\-----

John was beginning to worry about his waistline. He’d gained five pounds in the last two weeks alone. And was set to gain another five in the next few weeks, as the Holidays were vast approaching. Maybe he should take up jogging? Or go back to the gym. God knows that after he was through with physical therapy, he’d all but avoided any sort of activity that might be considered ‘working out’ if he could help it. Only cardio he got these days was chasing bad guys around half of London. 

“Focus.” Sherlock chastised, looking up from the laptop he was typing away on, to where John was supposed to be filling out one of the bizarre little questionnaires that Sherlock had come up with. 

John looks down at the computer in his lap, reads the screen again.

‘ _ Based on past experience with pies, not relating to this experiment, what would you say is your preferred pie type, sweet or savory? _ ’

The questions had changed from asking about the consistency of the pork jelly, to the flakiness of the pie crust, into something that John felt was more of a way to find out how to make the ultimate pie for John explicitly. John didn’t let on that he knew Sherlock was up to something, as having the ultimate pie sounded absolutely amazing. 

John thinks over the question, honest as he can, and finally types in: sweet.

Even though they’d only had savory pies as of yet, John couldn’t lie and say he wouldn’t do embarrassing things to get his hands on a nice Lemon Meringue, or Bilberry Pie. 

He looks up at Sherlock, who is typing away furiously, and hopes and prays that this man won’t get bored with this experiment anytime soon.

\-----

So many pies.

They’d unloaded them on Mrs.Hudson, the entirety of the Yard, and even Mycroft--though John was sure Sherlock had malicious intent behind that last one. It’d even gotten to the point that if you came by 221b looking for help, whether Sherlock and John expected your case or not, you left with a pie of some sort. Hell, even the postman had come to expect a pie or three when he came to deliver their post.

“I’m getting fat.” John complains, though he digs into the Apple pie regardless.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John where he sits at the kitchen table, trying to zero in on his stomach. Then shrugs, “You could stand to do with a few more pies in you.” he says.

John feels an odd blush come over him at that. He chalks it up to being overfed.

\-----

There was a case, because of course there was, and it took the boys out of the kitchen and into a dangerous undercover mission in a local meth den. 

John had hated every second of it. Not being able to stop his mind from seeing Sherlock curled up on one of the filthy mats that lay about the place, instead of the random junkies they stumbled across. It didn’t help that, to get in character, Sherlock had stabbed himself multiple times on each arm with a syringe. Even went in for a few veins on his hands. 

John had hated,  _ hated _ , watching that. Knowing that Sherlock knew where to press the needle into, not simply because he was a bloody genius, but because he had intimate experience with shooting his veins full of poison. Because that’s what this stuff was. Meth, heroine, cocaine. John didn’t care. It was poison. And it was  _ never _ going near Sherlock again.

“Drug test.” John says firmly as they enter the flat once more. They’d spent a week undercover before they’d caught their man, and now they were finally home. They both needed a shower, and a decent spot of food. But John would not be able to focus on anything else until this was out of the way.

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, testing to see if he can weasel his way out of this one. 

When he sees how serious John is about it, he simply nods.

_ Clean _ .

John breathes a sigh of relief when Sherlock’s test comes back negative. They could’ve done this at Bart’s, and John knows Molly took some of Sherlock’s blood under the influence of the same fear that John felt, but John had needed to double check. Needed to make sure. 

He can trust Sherlock implicitly on so many things. But John doubts that drugs will ever be one of those things.

John comes out of the shower, dressed in grey sweats and his old Army shirt, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. 

“Sherlock?” he calls. The lights were off and the flat was mostly dark, but there was a faint glow of light coming from the kitchen.

John follows the light, and is even more confused than he was when he finds a single pie on the table, three small birthday candles stuck in it. There are also larger candles in holders on either side of the pie. It washes the kitchen in a warm, fiery light. Makes John feels both suspicious and relaxed all at once.

John walks over to the pie, trying to make out what type it might be from the crust alone. He’d had more pies in the past few weeks than he’d ever had in his life, or even knew existed. Sans this last week, of course, that he’d like to scrub from his mind completely. Was the experiment back on then? It was rare for Sherlock to pick back up the strings of an experiment once they had been interrupted by a case. 

John feels himself smile, pleased beyond measure that they can get back into this routine of bizarre yet fond domesticity. Sherlock cooking, and John eating whatever Sherlock put in front of him. Even if there were questionnaires after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If it wasn’t a bit odd then it just wasn’t them.

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s voice issues from behind John.

John turns, smile growing as he sees his freshly cleaned up Detective, out of that awful tracksuit that John can only associate with relapse. Even if it was only a disguise and for a case, and back into something more familiar--poncy black suit pants and that purple shirt that John would never let on was his favorite.

“You’re welcome. But, er, what have I done exactly that requires thanks?” 

Sherlock steps closer. Takes the towel that John had loosley gripped in his hands, and tosses it to the side. 

“Everything.” he says.

John has to look almost directly up to see his face now. John narrow his eyes suspiciously, but a smirk plays on his lips, “Right, yeah. ‘Course.”

“John,” Sherlock starts, takes a breath. His pupils do this strange dance. Eyes widen. John thinks the man is about to bolt for the door.

“Yeah?” John places a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s elbow. Rubs his hand up and down the other man’s arm a bit, “What is it, Love?”

Sherlock gasps. Looks down at John’s hand on his arm. Then back up to John. His shocked mouth forms into an open breathless smile as he quirks his head to the side.

“Can I kiss you?”

“God yes.”

Sherlock leans down just as John raises up on his toes to make the meeting of lips come sooner.

It seemed inevitable, this. Being with Sherlock in this way. Since that first crime-scene. That first night at Angelo’s. The first time he met the poncy arse, if he’s being honest. It all came to a head slowly. Easily. Naturally. _ Finally _ . 

Sherlock pulls back to rest his forehead against John’s. Eyes closed.

“Can I ask you something?” John asks.

“Hmm?” Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, and John knows he’s adding this kiss to a room in his mind palace.

“What type of pie is that?” 

Sherlock opens his eyes in confusion, pulls back a little. John hooks his thumb over his shoulder towards the table, towards the pie that’s not doubt covered in melted wax by now.

Sherlock let’s out a laugh and John joins in with a low chuckle.

Sherlock leans in again, pressing his lips to John’s, before pulling away just enough to say, “Mince Pie.” and ducks back in for another kiss.

John smiles into the kiss. Sherlock had done it. John doesn’t even need to taste the pie to know that it will be the best he’d ever had. Mince Pies had always been his favorite.

  
  


The End

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo now I want some pie. How about y'all? Send me some nice vibes if you can. Or Kudo and comment, if you can. Or, if you can, come to my house and bake me a pie or twelve.


End file.
